


In Like A Lion

by 17603



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Spoilers, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17603/pseuds/17603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some side effects. Not all of them are bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Like A Lion

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the film. Played fast and loose with canon and medical details. Suspenders are the things that hold your trousers up.

Phil Coulson has found that being dead for two minutes and then in hospital for almost a month has some unexpected side effects.

None of his suits fit quite right.

The jackets hang too loosely, not as much about the shoulders, but across his chest and around his wrists. His shirt cuffs, once almost snug, flap and fold when he moves, and the extra length he chose to keep in his sleeves for additional mobility now means they slip over the heels of his hands. It's goddamn annoying. The trousers are the worst though, they used to hold - just - without a belt. Now they slide down his legs and tangle around his feet while he's shaving, half dressed in just his vest, tie hanging around his neck. He's always been on the lean side, much narrower than Rogers, lankier than Barton, he has joints and angles where they curve with muscle, but now his undershirts are roomy and his trousers won't even sit on his hips, and they threw out his good belt with his blood-stiff ruined clothing. He feels like a scarecrow wrapped in flapping sheets, scrawny and scruffy and badly needing a haircut.

The not-good belt, the emergency backup belt, bit the dust four minutes ago when he stood on the buckle by accident, leaving him clutching the front of his trousers by the waistband. He has to be in a briefing in fifteen minutes and damned if he's going to hold his suit trousers up with string, so he digs through the sock-belt-gloves-pepper spray-earplugs drawer and eventually finds his last resort.

The plain black clip-on suspenders are a perfectly acceptable alternative, but he feels a proper fool putting them on, awkward too, barely able to twist and stretch. He also can't strap his shoulder holster on around them, but he's forbidden to wear the shoulder holster (either shoulder holster, left or right) for another three weeks anyway, something about not aggravating the scar tissue. Without his belt he can't wear the hip one either, or his taser, which now means going unarmed, and doesn't that smart. The heavy duty belt from his field suit in his locker is too broad to fit through the loops of his suit, and green to boot. He's going to work unarmed for the first time ever.

It's insult piled on top of injury on top of irritation.

The suspenders are crooked, clipped at uneven intervals at the back because his arm can only twist so far, but with the suit jacket on, no one should notice. In a few weeks, maybe, he can resume his proper workout, build some muscle back up and hopefully he'll fit his clothing again. In a few days, it'll be the weekend and he can take an afternoon off and go buy another belt. Perhaps multiple belts. And boxer shorts that fit.

Feeling naked without any sort of sidearm (he's not taking the tiny canister of pepper spray, he has his pride) and foolish under straps of outdated stiff black elastic (there's not a lot of stretch to them), Phil Coulson eases himself down to the edge of his bed to tie his shoes, ignoring the spark of pain that goes from his chest all the way down his left arm. Limited mobility. Physical therapy. Slow healing. An entire organization watching to make sure he doesn't push himself too hard.

It's not that he isn't grateful for being alive, it's just that, well, he's grateful. He'll be more grateful with the weight of a gun against his ribs and trousers that stay up, that's all.

No one meets his eyes when he limps in. Everyone looks elsewhere, out non-existent windows, until he's seated. He wants to yell and stomp and laugh at them, but it sounds manic even in his head, frustrated anger (they won't let him do anything, they hold him by the edges, eyes wide with awe) tinged with survivor's guilt (he didn't do much good, not really, never enough) and a body that won't quite obey. At the end of the meeting, Nick's hand steadies under his elbow when the arm he's resting his weight on buckles and his knees follow suit. He doesn't quite fall, just falters, but that's enough and he tips his head to stare at the fingerprint-smudged tabletop while everyone else files out.

Nick's fingers dig in, insistent and almost hurting, and Phil knows the room is empty when he lets go and hooks the arm around his waist instead. He's solid, reliable, and Phil tries not to lean on him at all.  
"There's a stack of personnel files waiting in your office," he says, "new applicants, potential recruits."  
Phil nods. His hands are white knuckled on the table and his legs aren't really taking his weight. It's all Nick. "How many are we looking for, boss?"  
"As many as we can," he says, kicking Phil's chair so it bumps lightly against the backs of his knees, close enough to slowly lower him into. "But don't be too generous."  
He laughs. It sounds every bit as manic as it did in his head. The suspenders are digging into his shoulders awkwardly, no longer resting where he set them. "Not a chance," he says as he sinks into the chair and lets go of the breath he didn't know he was holding. "SHIELD takes the best." Its what Nick says to the new recruits at the start of training, what he reminds branches of the military of, what he tells the CIA and everyone who gives him dumbfounded stares or angry monologues, and it's done him proud and saved their lives and caused as much trouble as it's worth, at least.  
Nick's arm moves slowly out from behind him, careful not to bump his scar or ruffle his suit too much, and his hand resettles on Phil's shoulder, thumb resting against the back of the collar of his shirt. "The best of the best," he replies quietly, and there isn't anything he can say to that without dropping the pretense that everything is fine, so he leaves the silence be until he's ready to try standing again.

He tries to adjust the suspenders through his suit, but they won't stay put and he can't bear the thought of twisting out of and back into his jacket, not again, so he leaves them to slide around on his collarbones. It's uncomfortable and awkward and a little bit painful. It's a side effect.

Barton stops by his office around eleven to be intractable for a while. He's covered in bandaids and the red flecks of almost-healed minor cuts (shoulder first into broken glass) nothing too serious physically, but he's been moody and even more closed off than usual, snappish and short. Side effects, although he's more inclined to consider this an actual effect. It's been a long time since Clint Barton has been a side-anything in his life.

Phil should have been there after Natasha kicked him in the head, should have been there in Manhattan with them (Stark told him "you're not an Avenger" when he mentioned this, but fuck him, Selvig was there and civilians were there and not everyone needs to be able to fly a nuclear weapon through a portal in order to be useful) and he shouldn't have let Fury tell them he was dead for any longer than necessary, not that he had a choice in the latter. Not that it's any excuse. He should have been there and he wasn't, he died and woke up, made a liar of his boss (his oldest friend) and everyone steps warily now. Rogers is cautious around him, Stark doesn't feel awkwardness and therefore doesn't count, Romanov is faintly sullen and Banner is politely watchful, but Barton breaks his goddamn heart with the betrayal in his eyes.

He should have been there. He wasn't. Now he is, and it's too late and almost worse.

Now Barton hangs around his office and doesn't talk to him much, if at all, but the silence is crushing rather than companionable, and he can only imagine what it's going to be like on the other end of a comm when (if) they start doing their old Gruesome Twosome gonzo missions again. If they can go back to coffee and motels of varying quality and an almost pleasant tension between them. If he'll even be allowed to resume field duty. If he'll have the threat of buckling joints forever, too-thin without his hard-earned muscles (Phil has always been skinny, his starting physique is closer to Banner than Rogers, his childhood hero eventually became the object of teenage envy) and useless enough to fade into a desk job and an early retirement.

He can't do it. Can't stay in his comical scarecrow suits forever, can't leave them all, well enough and alone, after he worked so hard to drag them together. Can't leave Barton to flounder when it's clear no one else has stepped up to ease the weight of guilt on his shoulders. He's Phil's responsibility, his only actual friend outside of Nick, and although that circle might have widened to include Potts and Stark when he wasn't looking, he's Phil's (his what, he doesn't know) and Phil failed him.

"Barton," he says after a while, and is immediately pinned under a sharp blue stare. "Clint, are you" don't say all right, don't say okay, don't say anything of the sort "cleared for active duty?"  
Headshake.  
"Have they given you any idea of when you will be?"  
Barton stands up from the spare chair and glares down at Phil, sitting behind his desk. "I'll leave you alone, sir."  
"That's not what I asked," he snaps, and the voice works, he falters mid step. "Sit down."  
He does, and maybe it's Phil's imagination, but he looks slightly less resentful.  
"Do you know when you'll be cleared for active duty again?"  
"No, sir."  
"Who's your current handler?" It's not him, for the first time ever. "Sitwell?"  
Barton scowls. "Hill."  
That's just cruel. Phil's read the reports. Loki tried to kill her, using Clint. Fear and guilt and misplaced anger. Side effects. "Not for much longer."  
"Sir?" It's respectful and a little hopeful and he's done him such disservice all the times he's let him sit there in silence.  
"I won't be cleared for a while, so it'll be admin work and passing evals and training," he clears his throat, conscious of how bad that must sound, what a raw deal, "but I can transfer you to me."  
Barton's mouth opens, closes.  
"You don't have to, Jasper's available, you'd be back in the field with him pretty soon, he's probably a better handler for you at this point anyway," Phil adds, quickly too because he's seen that defiant set of jaw before. "He'll be able to keep up with you."

It's meant to come out light, joking, but his voice is a bit rough and the almost-smile he tries to flash doesn't reach his eyes, not the way the fierce anger burns in Barton's. He's always been both intense and distant and Phil knows enough about why (broken bones and promises and homes) to know that after a lifetime of nothing but self reliance, being betrayed from within is the fractures of doubt spreading outwards, a confirmation (you are no good, no good at all) and a denial (how dare you reach for worth) all at once. He used to think he could lift that a little, ease the doubt. Now he knows he failed. Side effect of dying, failure.

"I don't want to work with Sitwell," Barton says loudly. "I respectfully request to be transferred back to my original handler, Agent Phil Coulson, instead."  
It's the longest sentence he's said to Phil since the morning before the Loki incident at the research facility. Clint had been teasing him then, sly smiling and slouching over the cafeteria table so their elbows almost touched and it was easy; they both knew what to pretend not to notice. "All right," he says, stays calm.

Barton stares balefully at him, defiant and a little bit frightened and all Phil wants to do is kneel in front of him and tell him it isn't his fault, hold his solid sloping shoulders under his hands and tell him over and over until he believes it. He doesn't though, he just says "I'll put that through today, then," and gives his best shot at a smile, even though it comes out a grimace.

Barton stays quiet. Phil logs in and puts it through immediately, tags it as urgent, and emails Hill and Fury separately. The keyboard strikes like a hammer in the silence and his suspenders are slipping down his shoulder on one side and rubbing against his almost-scar on the other, but the quiet isn't as loaded as before and he dives into paperwork, email client open on his screen, waiting for a reply.

"I don't want your pity," Barton says suddenly, and he can't help it, his eyes snap up.  
"Fortunate," Phil looks back to his paperwork and tries to keep his voice dry and flat. "Because you don't have my pity."  
"Bullshit, everyone's either afraid of me, because I'm a fucking murderer and a traitor, or they pity me because I was weak enough to be controlled," he spits. "Which one are you, sir, pity or fear?"  
"I'm not afraid of you."  
"So it's pity then, being the bigger man, the hero who got stabbed in the chest while us mere mortals succumbed to mind control," the trick with Barton, Clint, is to let him talk himself out. "It's easy to be superior when you've come back from the dead, I bet."  
He puts down his pen but doesn't say anything, just listens and watches and tries not to remember the sick cold feeling when the announcement went out over the comms, _Barton's been compromised_. He'd hoped when he shot Loki, he'd really hoped...it didn't matter what he hoped because it didn't work.  
"You always wanted to be like Captain America, don't lie, I've seen your stupid trading cards, you've always had a thing about heroes and now you get to be one and I hope you're fucking happy, you should go be his handler and leave me to someone else, you know, don't even bother transferring me, I'm fine where I am."  
The request has gone through, just waiting for Fury to sign off on it, and he'd put it through even if it hadn't, he'd march (slowly, maybe leaning on a wall) to the directors office and get the signature himself.  
"Wouldn't want to make a hero work with a traitor," Clint mutters, glaring. He's hunched in on himself, legs sprawling out in front of him.

Another side effect is being considered a hero. It's uncomfortable at best, awkward enough in his head without Clint sneering the word at him. He didn't join SHIELD to be a hero.

"I don't want to work with you anyway, you're too fucking old to be on active duty and the whole Captain America obsession is stupid and creepy, and," he falters, "and you're like a lizard behind your desk, staring at me, a lizard in a tie."  
He hasn't been staring. He's been looking at his paperwork, and he doesn't look up now. "You'll be required to attend mandatory psych sessions."  
"Fucking brilliant," Clint hisses, cracks on the last syllable but doesn't break. "I'm sick of being stared at."  
"You'll need to fill in a training schedule summary and note down any leave you intend to take over the next six months."  
"I don't know if I can do this," he says, and Phil's throat goes tight but he doesn't look up. He can't. He can't acknowledge, can't admit that sometimes, when his muscles seize in bed and he can hardly breathe, or when his arm jolts with pain and he can't make a fist, when he wakes up gasping with phantom ice spiking through his chest and poison green light burning on the insides of his eyelids, he doesn't know if he can do it anymore either. The side effects are too much.

A quick glance up reveals Clint curving in on himself, chin on his chest and arms clenched around his midsection. He's staring at the floor. Phil tries not to stare at anything, tries not to exist.

"Clint," he says, pushing himself up out of his chair, "Clint," and that's as far as he's gotten, really, there's no platitudes, no comfort he can really offer. His own footing is just as tenuous, his own grip slipping, and that's not what Barton needs to hear. He needs firm ground on which to plant his feet and Phil's always been that for him, as much as he can, it's as much as he'd do for any agent (and that's as much a lie as he's ever told).

"Just, just don't." He doesn't look up.

Phil pushes himself upright, tests his weight with his elbows and feels it burn across his shoulders, but his knees hold for now. He's slow, this morning has been a bad morning, he must have slept funny, some odd position, because he'd swear it didn't hurt like this yesterday. He should stretch before he tries to move. Aggravated side effects.

He makes it further than he thinks he will before his left knee locks and the misstep sends white hot pain burning up his chest. He wheezes as his lungs refuse to fill, sways as a rush of blood to his head greys his vision, but someone catches him around the waist.

"Sir," they say, "are you all right, Phil, oh, fuck, Phil."

It's Clint.

He doesn't look angry any more, when he finally fades into focus. He's very close (as close as he's ever been) and he just looks worried, a little bit scared with his arms around him and blue eyes wide.  
"Sir?"  
Phil's almost got his breath back, almost balanced again, but still shaky. "I'm fine, just a bit stiff."  
"You couldn't breathe," he says reproachfully, eyeing his chest like he's going to see the spread of blood at any second. That won't happen. Phil won't split his scar. Again. Side effect of overreaching, pain and blood. "Are you sure?"  
"Yes, I'm fine, perfectly fine," he says, and is preparing to pull away when the grip tightens.  
Clint had been in the middle of saying something about stubborn bastards and their limits, but he trails off and says "are you wearing..." and doesn't finish that sentence either before his hand goes to Phil's lapel and tweaks it out of the way so he can see for himself.

"These are new," Clint says, something odd and new in his voice, a current under still water, and one of his fingers slips under the elastic, stroking over Phil's collarbone. It's obviously unintentional. "You look like a film noir detective."  
"My belt broke. My trousers won't stay up on their own since..." he trails off, unwilling to mention, well, _that_.  
Barton just laughs a little, free hand settling on Phil's waist, ready to shift back to supporting him at any second. "I like them."  
"They're crooked," he says, because his knees aren't shaking any more and he's fine and standing but Barton isn't going anywhere. "I can't twist or turn much. Limited reach too."  
"Hold still," he's not looking at Phil's face any more, he's neatly sidestepping, biting his lip in concentration as his hands flutter and all too soon he's out of the line of Phil's vision but his fingers are running over his lower back, reassuring points of contact. "I'll fix them for you, if that's all right sir?"

_Sir_ doesn't sound like the perfunctory honorific it used to be. Nothing sounds the same these days, but that doesn't mean anyone is saying things differently (are you all right, do you need a hand, it's getting late) it's his imagination, it's just a side effect, he's hearing things from a different angle.

But still,  _sir_ hasn't sounded quite like it should for longer than all that, for much longer than his best asset (friend) has held him upright in his own office, hands blood-warm through his clothing, easing his suit jacket off and down his arms with startling care, cues taken from light touches in silence.

It's strange and intimate, Barton unclips both straps and resettles them on Phil's shoulders, smoothing them gently down the planes of his back (light over the scar) before reattaching them to the waistband of his trousers. His fingers dip lower, tucking the shirt in a little more, straightening here and there, and he's standing so close that Phil can feel his breath on his neck.  
"I was going to ask," he says, "I was, I was just waiting for the right moment. It got real busy and just didn't quit for a while there, sir."  
"What were you going to ask?"  
The huff of air on the back of his neck raises the hairs there, and might be amused, might be fondly annoyed. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"  
"I was going to ask you," Phil says, because it's true. He was going to ask a hundred times. "But it would have been unprofessional."

This time he laughs, his arms loop around Phil's waist (broad square hands on his stomach) and his chest settles against his back, forehead dropping to rest just below his collar.  
"I don't care," he says when the laughing trails off, and his voice cracks and this time breaks. "You died. Not permanently, but you did. Fury told me what he did and why and I tried to punch him and got my ass handed to me and spent a night in a holding cell and yelled at Captain fucking America and the richest man on the planet about what selfish pricks they were, Dr Banner, _the goddamn Hulk's alter ego_ , spent forty minutes patting my back and telling me to calm down while I cried all over his lab coat, and Natasha said that if I didn't do something about this, she would."  
"Natasha is pretty terrifying," Phil says, trying to process that barrage of imagery. He's leaning back a bit, relaxing into the embrace.  
"I cursed out a national icon on your behalf," Clint says against his back. "I think we're well beyond unprofessional. He looked like he was going to either twist my head off or cry. I also got him to sign your cards. Stark replaced the ones that Fury got blood on."  
He's a little speechless. "You what?" Phil's not sure if he's referring to the cards or the cursing out.  
"You owe me big," Clint mumbles, and his grip tightens.  
Phil rubs the tips of his fingers over the knuckles of the hands splayed on his abdomen and decides he's all right with both occurrences, he doesn't care, it's worth it, whatever this is, it's worth it. "Would you settle for dinner?"

Clint inches around, never letting go, and perches on the edge of his desk, gently pulling Phil close. He's smiling, odd and crooked without his usual hint of a smirk, but happy.  
"Only if you wear these," he says, and lightly snaps the suspender strap on Phil's uninjured side. "I might settle then."  
"Pick you up at six thirty?"  
He laughs properly now, fingers still tangled in the elastic. "You aren't in any shape to pick anyone up, sir," he says, and kisses him lightly on the mouth. It's almost shy. "I'll meet you back here then?"  
"Yeah," Phil says, dry mouthed. "Um, yeah. That's good."  
He kisses him again. "Right now I have a bunch of paperwork to do for my handler, so I'd love to stay and chat, but I can't."  
"A covert ops organization marches on its triplicate paperwork," he agrees, and there's a twinge in his chest that has absolutely nothing to do with recent surgery.  
Clint laughs again, kisses him again and moves closer. "I missed you sir," he says.

A possible side effect of dying is being missed.

It's unexpected, but not the worst thing by any means.


End file.
